


Closing Time

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First meetings, new beginnings. He knows who he wants to take home tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Every New Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> So here’s a new story I am hoping will drag me kicking and screaming back to writing:D And my writerly friends can then stop listening to me complain about writer’s block:P Thank you guys – you are the best:D
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for looking this over.  
> This is based on the song Closing Time by Semisonic.
> 
> I own nothing but my ideas and the computer this was written on – that’s at least is paid for!

It was half an hour until closing and there had been no progress made with the case. It was quiet and hatefully serene. It was possible although highly unlikely he had made an error in judgement and this was not the location the murderer was using to scout out his victims. 

It was the third night running observing the clientele. At first he had refused the case as it had appeared to be uninteresting, but when the last body turned up, he became intrigued. Now he was beginning to believe that he would have to change tactics. This was not getting him any closer to the murderer.

Tedious. Utterly, completely tedious. Not for the first time he wished something would happen, anything to relieve the unrelenting monotony.

They say be careful what you wish for, but what he was about to receive from the universe would be so much better than anything he could have contemplated in any musing. Almost as if someone had handpicked a gift and tailor made it to his personality. Something most would believe to be impossible. Funnily enough here he stood leaning against the bar, one who did not consider luck to be real or, in fact anything that spoke of the mystical. It was all ridiculous and specious to suppose a greater power or a presence could send someone to change their life in an instant. There was no such thing as preordained happenings. All could be proved scientifically and was quantifiable. Fate did not saunter in on a whim.

Idle thoughts when he couldn’t afford them did not aid in solving a murder, but it also did not help that at that precise moment the hair stood up on the back of his neck. Goosebumps appeared on his skin and his heart rate, for unknown reasons, quickened.

Which, of course, was the moment the door to the pub swung open. A chilly blast of cold air followed in on the heels of the man who came through. The wind whistling between the cracks and the sounds of traffic momentarily competed with the noise of the telly as it blasted in the background.

The man, short, blonde to grey hair, stood preternaturally still, not leaning on the cane in his hand, as his gaze swept around the room, lips pursed. Not as if he was looking for someone specifically but as if he were checking for threats, almost as an automatic response.

Not unlike the man beside the bar. He was there to check the custom for hidden evidence, for secrets, which only he could see. The new patron surveyed his surroundings as if he were used to a quiet and peaceful setting erupting into violence in an instance.

Rag in hand, the burly barman wiped up the spills left behind on the dark wood, the smell of beer wafted up, played on his senses as he noted every detail. He could not help but perceive them. He almost dismissed the man as soon as he had catalogued him. Almost. His first thought had been ordinary, but his next eight said intriguing. The man who headed toward the counter of the bar screamed paradox.

A small sound brushed the edge of his consciousness and caused him to refocus. A quiet, pleasant voice said, “Beck’s, please.”

The barman bent over and reached round and he placed the green bottle in front of the man.

“Ta,” the shorter man said, as he fished out his money.

Possibly it was boredom, possibly something else, it didn’t matter it. Maybe it was just the way the man stood there, but he felt the words slip out of his mouth,

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Startled, bemused, perhaps a touch offended, colours of which painted the tone of the shorter man’s next word.

“Sorry?”

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” impatience jarred the edge of his voice.

The other almost choked on the mouthful he had started to swallow. “Afghanistan. Sorry how did you…?” 

“I know you’re an army doctor. You’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

“Hang on? Who are you? How do you know?” although he could see the other man was drawing back a little, possibly straightening his stance more, he held himself and drew up as if to give the appearance of greater height, he became even more military in his bearing. There was an unmistakable gleam in the startlingly navy eyes that were reflections of limitless pools of curiosity and intelligence. Surprisingly, the offended tone dropped out and clearly the other man was intrigued by the start of this conversation. Which was just as well as he was on a role and since he had an audience that met with some approval he couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried.

“Your haircut and stance say military. You observe the room as if looking for hidden threats which could suggest police but unlikely. You’re tanned, but not above the wrist which says you’ve been abroad but not for pleasure. You use a cane when you walk but not when you stand suggesting you have forgotten about your leg. Psychosomatic. You are wearing the shoes of a doctor and the corner of your ID badge is showing. You work at St. Mary’s, which is just across the street. Considering the time it suggests you are coming off of a shift.”

The other man’s eyes blinked for a minute and then broke into a grin, his eyes twinkled merrily as if he were suppressing the desire to laugh out loud, not at the first man, but rather in delight, as if he recognized his cleverness. An odd sensation entered the taller man’s chest, for it was rather like basking in the rays of a new sun, the way the smile lit up the other’s face.

“That was brilliant! That was amazing!”

“That’s not what most people say,” he almost mumbled under his breath, once more the man beside him surprising words out of his mouth.

“Well they should be. How did you know all that?”

“I simply observe.”

The shorter man held out a hand, “John. John Watson.”

The other blinked looked down at the proffered hand and then slowly clasped it and shook. “Holmes,” his rich baritone rumbled through his chest. “Sherlock Homes.”

“So Mr. Holmes, do you often stand around in pubs on a cold night and observe people who come in after a days work?” Watson took a swig from the bottle, set it down and leaned against the rail, the gleam in his eye still glimmering brightly up at him.

Sherlock tilted his head. He wasn’t sure what it was about this doctor standing in front of him but a sense of unexpected trust welled up and he found himself wanting to tell him everything, starting with “Sherlock, please. I am looking for a serial killer.”

“Oh? Police are you?”

“No. Definitely not. I consult for the police. Consulting detective.”

“What would a consultant for the police be doing tracking down a serial killer on his own? Bit dangerous that, yeah?”

“Dangerous?” he noted the way the other man's eyes burned even brighter when he said danger. “Possibly. The police are often incapable of solving a crime like this on their own. I merely point them in the right direction. Sometimes I have to put my hand in more directly.”

“So this serial killer. He comes into this pub looking for a victim, perhaps? Do you think you’d spot him then? And what would you do next?”

“I would inform my contact at the Met and that would be that.” Watson was watching his face closely. He noted the way the bright eyes tracked over his mouth and back to his eyes. 

“Does this have anything to do with those suicides mentioned in the paper? Serial suicides they were saying. It seems odd. I mean you get copycat suicides sometimes but that’s usually young people in school or at uni, not like this. Mix of ages and professions. Seems like their deaths are their only connection.” Watson took another swig.

The tall detective was impressed at how quickly he grasped the situation. He had a momentary thrill that perhaps this was the killer, but no there seemed to be too much morality emanating from the man. Yes there were murdering doctors and he was a soldier home from the war, horrors playing upon his psyche but no, this was not the man he was looking for. He did feel a pull starting in the region of his navel that was most disconcerting. 

He continued to watch the doctor carefully, trying to pinpoint what it was about him. Watson’s tongue brushed his lips quickly and he reached for his beer and swallowed quickly, his Adam’s apple catching his eye. Sherlock found his mouth became dry suddenly. A rush of heat seemed to flow through him, threatening to melt his limbs. It had been a long time since he’d been interested in anyone on a physical level and he didn’t usually feel this level of attraction for another person advance so rapidly. There was definitely something increasing between them beyond the curiosity about the case.

Just then the sound of a bell and the barman called out “Last orders, please!” Closing time. Another night had come and gone. He would not catch the killer tonight.

“Well, I really must be on my way. It’s been a long day. I hope you catch your killer.” Watson paused as if he were going to say something and then changed direction. The unspoken words hung between them, charging the air. Sherlock was certain he knew what those words were going to be, but perhaps the moment had passed. 

Blue eyes softened with concern. “Please be careful. I’d hate to see you in A & E.” 

A strange feeling of loss for what he could not name entered his chest. He didn’t want this man to leave. There was a fascination that permeated and coursed down his spine. His molecules sang and vibrated. This was a turning point. He could feel it, tangible and thick. If they each walked out the door they would not see the other again. He once more felt the words shaping in his mouth and they were out on the air between them before he could change his mind.

“John, would you like to come home with me?”


	2. Time For You to Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once more to mattsloved1 for looking this over:)

When he had walked into the pub it had been for a quick beer, unwind from a long and gruelling day. He hadn’t been expecting his life would shift into a new direction. If he had stepped through the door a second sooner or a minute later it wouldn’t have happened, but because he came through the door at that exact moment, on this particular night, the possibilities opened up for him and everything started over.

He walked into the pub and he met Sherlock Holmes, who said something he least expected, flipped his worldview in an instant but was so poignantly flawless it was the only way this night could conclude.

“John, would you like to come home with me?”

An electrifying sensation flowed across his abdomen; excitement danced and soared deep inside. He had thought he’d misplaced these feelings, buried under stress and sorrow, fear and horror from the war. He often wondered if he would ever experience the blush of a new passion again. He had been closed off and parted from his feelings for so long, he hadn’t felt alive or even as if he were in this place and time.

This intense, strange man who saw everything about him, who seemed to see down to the core of what he was, and made him real, woke up a hidden desire. His voice alone sent vibrations up and down his spine as if he was using it to stroke and tune his body, as if it were a perfect musical instrument. There was something almost familiar about all of this as if they’d met before or knew each other from the memory of a dream, an almost instant connection. 

John had never felt attraction in an instant and never before this spectacular.

He swallowed drily and asked a question, hoping to clarify the muddle of thoughts and emotions that raced through his head and hummed within his body.

“You want me to go home with you? But we just met.” Bewilderment and hope wrestled with each other. How on earth could he mean him?

The other man looked momentarily flustered as if what he had said had been impulsive and now he was wondering if he had said too much, too soon. Perhaps he had. Tendrils of disappointment were added to the mixture.

Sherlock looked down at the floor. “I…I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. That isn’t me.”

John reached out a tentative hand, “No, I didn’t think it was, but…”

The dark haired man looked up swiftly and the eyes that had drawn John immediately seem to blaze with something unearthly. 

“But what?” His voice, dark and deep, rumbled through the air, unspoken promise created currents between them.

“It isn’t me either. Look, this is going to sound strange, but do I know you? There’s something I can’t put my finger on.” He paused, searching for some hidden doubt inside. There was none. “I wouldn’t normally say this,” he cleared his throat. “My answer is yes.” Almost a whisper, a confession, something secret and precious, told to the object of his attraction. It wasn’t necessary to unburden himself to anyone else and the consecrations of a shadowy angel were much more exotic and desired than that of a priest.

The bottomless green eyes grew black and the pale perfect face flushed pink. A quick nod and he swept out of the pub. John trotted up to keep up, not noticing he’d left his cane behind.

“Wait, weren’t you waiting to catch a killer?’ 

Sherlock turned around and quirked an eyebrow at him.

“It was a long shot. I had surmised this as the most likely place the serial killer was using to choose his victims. However, as the pub is closing and nothing has happened, it must not be here.”

John tentatively reached out and touched the other man’s sleeve and a quiver of joy ran through him. Interesting what simple contact through a heavy wool coat would do. What would it be like to strip this impossible man of his clothes and sweep his hand on bare skin? His breathing became a little unsteady at the thought.

“Where do you live?”

“221B Baker Street.”

John nodded, his hands were shoved into the pockets of his jacket, the night had grown even colder. Sherlock looked around Praed Street, searching for a cab.

“So why? Why did you think it was this place?” John, who had a reputation of being able to pull anyone he set his sights on, and while not unusual, he did not often pick up complete strangers. Often. He felt awkward and attempted to fill in what could be an empty silence. There was also a certain interest in what determined a location to be a likely place for a killer to hunt.

“Two of the victims had items on their persons from the pub.”

“So could it be someone from the pub?”

“No. I checked. At least, it isn’t someone who works here.”

“But it must be someone they come in contact with, who notices them.”

Sherlock stilled. “John, what do you do if you’ve had too much to drink?” he asked this softly.

“Well, I don’t drive, so I would use the Tube or catch…”

“A cab! Brilliant! Oh it’s so obvious, why didn’t I think of this before. There’s always something.” He swept up closer to John, almost in his space and grasped the shorter man by the shoulders. For a thrilled filled moment, John wondered if he was going to be kissed. “Don’t you see? It’s a cab driver!”

“A cabby? But how…”

“A cab driver. Who do you trust to take you home? Who is so commonplace we don’t even think to look for them? Who doesn’t stand out? He waits for someone to come out of the pub. They think they’re safe, so…”

“They get into his cab! But how does he get them to kill themselves?”

He looked with interest as the other man clapped his hands, his actions almost gleeful.

“I don’t know, but that’s part of the beauty of the puzzle, part of the dance and discovery of the enigmatic. Don’t you see?” 

The way the detective spoke, cradled the words in loving embrace, John could see, clearly, why it was so exhilarating. Sherlock swept him up in his excitement and he could taste the sheer joy of a mystery being solved, the heady rush. He could sense the appeal and it tasted like wine upon his lips.

Sherlock lifted his head and swept his gaze up and down the road. He stopped and narrowed his eyes and a satisfied hum came out of his throat. “John,” he said, “I need you to play along. Follow my lead. Don’t ask questions.”

Before John could answer, he was shoved up against the wall of the pub. The rough brick behind him was barely noticeable as his senses were attuned to other things. Sherlock leaned down and the hands that had been on his shoulders traced down and around, one placed firmly against the back of his head, the other inside his coat and around his back, fingers splayed firmly. The long, lanky body of the detective was pressed securely against him. John instinctively grabbed at the edges of the coat and steadied himself. The taller man bent down and brushed his lips against John’s. He tasted the flavour of coffee and a faint memory of cigarettes and a unique tang that was pure Sherlock enfolded him and drove all other thoughts out of his head. An urgent, hungry press of lips hinted at more intimate contact. He unquestionably opened his mouth and he felt the sweet hesitant touch of another’s tongue in his mouth. John lost himself in the simple, primal urges of the moment. He closed his eyes and he let himself be taken over.

The hand on his back roamed down and confidently settled on John’s arse, but the other continued to embrace his head in a gentle hold. He shifted a little in order to press himself up against Sherlock. All thoughts of murderers and cabbies and the cold were driven from his mind as he clung to the other man. 

Sherlock broke off the kiss to trail his mouth down John’s chin and across his jaw line. John gasped as Sherlock nibbled and bit a sensitive spot just under his left ear. The deep voice whispered into his ear, not words of lust or even endearment but, “Now shove me away from you as hard as you can and start shouting at me.”

John’s thoughts were rather fuzzy at the moment and he was only able to get out a garbled “What?”

The voice murmured right into his ear, a rather sensitive area for John that seemed to be connected directly to his groin.

“John, focus. I need you to shove me away and yell at me. Tell me you don’t want me. Now!”

It was the last thing he wanted to do. Here was the person he had been searching for all of his life and hadn’t known it. To thrust it away from him and deny this gift was almost unbearable but there was something inside that trusted Sherlock completely and he reluctantly did as he was told.

“Stop!” he shouted at the other man. “”Stop! I said no! You can’t just thrust your tongue down my throat and expect me to go home with you!”

Sherlock’s eyes glimmered with a flash of ‘well done’, but the mask dropped over his face and if John didn’t know better he would have believed every word coming out of the detective’s mouth.

“You were happy enough about it when I was buying you drinks! All talk!”

He swirled away from John and staggered up the road.

John tried to get his thoughts in order and his body to behave as he watched Sherlock leave.

Eyes narrowed as he saw a cab he hadn’t noticed before, switched on its For Hire sign.

He watched as Sherlock leaned against the cab. An interminable length passed before there was a strangled shout of “John!” and he saw Sherlock slump against the side of the cab. The cabby opened his door and hastily pushed Sherlock into the back of the cab.

A cold spasm of fear crawled through John and wiped away any lingering trails of lust.

Panic coursed through his veins. He felt the weight of determination settle upon him as he decided upon a course of action.

He ran toward the cab.


	3. Take Me Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was hard to write:P I didn’t want to just spew the whole scene with Jefferson Hope all over again – that –to me – would have been boring. I have included a few lines of dialogue from the Unaired Pilot, but I have changed a few things as well. Which is why it’s an AU:D There will be one more chapter after this.
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for looking it over and putting up with my grumbling;)
> 
> Don’t own – yet:D Give me time;)

John Watson was simply the most marvelous thing that had ever happened to him. No one could be this astounding; no one could be this vivid.

He lit up the inside of Sherlock’s head like a supernova. After, long after, light-years after, he will pull the doctor in like a dark star and if they come together and if it works out the way it should then they will melt and combust as they implode. It will be glorious.

There were not many people who could surprise him. His brother upon occasion; he had yet to let Mycroft know how many times that had actually happened. The one DI who would work with him, once in a while would cause a lifted brow.

But John, John was the most unexpected, the most precious gift. Everything tonight had been new from the moment the doctor had stepped into the bar to the moment of discovering what was underneath the doctor after Hope had died, as Sherlock was sitting in the back of an ambulance.

This impossible man had responded with such passion and hunger when he’d been kissed, had lowered his guard and trusted the detective in a way no one ever had, simply and serenely. Sherlock had known from the first moment of sweeping his gaze across John that trust did not come easily to him. They had both been averse to breaking off the kiss. He had reluctantly left John behind, a cold chill encased him as he removed himself from that warm presence, from the kiss, which had been part cover and part a promise of more. It was as thrilling as the game, but had to be pushed aside for now. He had staggered toward the cab, the one that had its sign turned off until the two of them were spotted ‘arguing’.

He wasn’t aware at first that something was wrong when he began talking to the cab driver. He had confronted the driver and confirmed his identity as that of the killer. After that it went pear shaped, beginning with the slowing down of his thought process, an important fact he hadn’t noticed until the cabbie said, “Done a lot of drugs, Mr. Holmes?” And then he had spotted the needle in his arm. _Stupid, stupid._ There was always something.

It all broke apart, slowing to a crawl and the assault on his mind became a darkly twisted miasma. He felt on the brink of fear, not for his predicament but for the loss of clarity. He struggled against it as the cabbie droned on about how others would have succumbed by now.

He had yelled for John. The man had his address, so he had spared a brief hope the other man was smart enough to figure out it had all gone wrong. As he was dragged into the cab and sped to his flat, it all went grey. Odd, warped sounds hummed through his ears and flashes of light were the only things processed.

“I hope you don’t mind. You gave me your address. You’ve only been out for about ten minutes. You’re strong.” The soft, insidious voice permeated the fog clutching at his head. He jerked around to see the cabbie at ease and appearing as if being in his flat was an everyday occurrence, hands tucked into his pockets.

A small part of Sherlock noted that he was able to see some of the minutiae the man had buried under the façade of harmless driver, but it wasn’t concise and crisp, the edges were watered down and fading, like rain on a window. He could look out but the details were muted.

There was a conversation of give and take, most of which Sherlock would eventually delete, not because he thought it unimportant but because the exchange was not his best moment. He couldn’t shine; he was drugged to the gills and addled in his responses. He should have been able to figure a way of getting himself out of the mess he was in, but it eventually came down to being rescued by the man he’d just met.

The shock and beauty of the bullet crashing through the window and into Jefferson Hope, the odd feeling of delight as he took the time to twist the name _Moriarty_ from his lips and then watch him die. That was more of a jolt than he thought it would be and it cleared some of the muddle. He had seen dead bodies before but not observed a death right at his feet, in front of him, extraordinary and fascinating.

Lestrade crashed through the door and manhandled him down to the kerb, into the waiting ambulance, all the while muttering imprecations at him. Good old Doctor Watson must have called the police.

And then the moment that would burn brightest in his mind, its glow would be tucked away and treasured. The absolutely rush of understanding and the murkiness of the drug lifted. It was indescribable to glance at the man and see it all whilst he acted the curious bystander. He looked as if he was merely watching the cleanup from a crime, while Sherlock read the evidence of the cabbie’s death in John’s character. He remembered it was something John had said which had been the catalyst for unlocking and opening the gloriously crystal connections and causing him to recognize that Jefferson Hope was the serial killer. Extraordinary John must be captured and never released. 

Sherlock dismissed himself from Lestrade with a flimsy excuse and crossed to where the doctor was standing, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

They stood there staring at each other, words unspoken but heavy with potential, until Sherlock broke it with a simple “Thank you.”

John shrugged, not even pretending to dissemble. “I didn’t like the odds, and you looked like you needed a hand.”

“Yes, but not everyone lends a hand by killing for someone they had just met.”

 “He was going to kill you first. I thought I’d save him the bother.”

They both stood there staring until Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded his head toward his flat. “They’re going to be cleaning up in there for awhile. Hungry?”

A brief flash of a smile and a nod. “Definitely, I’m starving.”

“I know a good Chinese just down the block. Stays open until 3.”

“Will you… will you need some place to stay? After?”

 “I might.”

John looked down at the ground and then back up and Sherlock forgot to breathe, the deafening ocean blue of John’s eyes threatened to swallow him.

“All right then. But you are just coming to my place to sleep off whatever he gave you. I won’t sleep with you. Not until you are you again.”

He had sputtered out a protest, which died in his throat as he saw the grim determination in the shorter man’s stance.

John reached up and stroked his cheek, the touch electric and stepped closer into Sherlock’s space. His voice was low and coursed through him. “I want you. I want to take you and do everything possible to you.”

Sherlock felt the thrill of his words shoot through him and he opened his mouth again. John brushed a thumb across his lips, silencing him. “But I won’t, not until you’ve slept it off.”

Sherlock flicked his tongue out and swept it across the thumb lying across his lips. John inhaled sharply and chuckled. “Nice try, but I’m not changing my mind.”

Afterwards John took him to his flat and shoved Sherlock rather forcefully into his bedroom. He entertained the brief hope that John had changed his mind, but it was not happening. He watched as he rummaged around his dresser and pulled out track pants and a t-shirt and had tossed them on the bed and apologized.

 “Sorry. They’ll be small on you, but it’s what I have.” He tangled his hand through Sherlock’s hair. The taller man tilted his head back and reveled in the feeling of John being taller than him. John leaned into him and kissed him again, briefly, chastely. He caressed his face and then abruptly turned and left, the click of the door following him out

Sherlock sighed, changed into the worn outfit and snuggled down into the bed, which smelled of cinnamon, tea, sunshine and something indescribably John. A smile tilted his lips as he drifted off, more tired than he thought, coming down from the mixture of adrenalin and drugs. There was something earth shatteringly safe about lying in this man’s bed.

When he woke the next morning, mouth dry and dusty, he found water and toast sitting on the bedside table.

A note was tucked under the glass.

“I watched you sleep for a bit this morning. Sorry I couldn’t stay because it was all I could do not to wake you. I have an early shift but I’ll meet you tonight at the pub.”

A loopy J was signed at the bottom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Some Other Beginning's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay - last chapter!  
> Thank you to all who read this:)
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for checking this over.

John stood waiting. He’d been here for about thirty minutes and was beginning to wonder if Sherlock would even show.

 A heavy sighed escaped before he could contain it. He should have said fuck it to his honour and his moral high ground and just, well…fucked him last night.

 He was never going to see him again. Oh sure, he knew where he lived, but he didn’t think he could just show up unannounced. Not that it mattered if he’d killed a man for him, it would just be awkward. After all he really didn’t do this sort of thing. He didn’t pick up strange men in pubs, he didn’t kill for them either. He grimaced. But Sherlock was different. It was like there was an invisible thread tugging at his heart. What person kisses someone like that and then takes off after a serial killer? He had probably just been used for the distraction and the detective had forgotten about him. He sighed again, his brain whirling with dilemma and confusion and it flitted about with ideas and images. It was exhausting.

 The bell rang for closing and everyone began to gather their coats. Farewells were said and people made their way to the door. John drained his glass and followed. He collected his cane. Funny that. He hadn’t realized he had forgotten it last night until the next morning. The rush from the chase and the adrenalin kick seemed to convince his dodgy leg to behave. If nothing else came about he was at least grateful to Sherlock for that.

 John made his way out and fastened his jacket. The wind had picked up and the cold blew through him. It was going to be a long walk to the nearest Tube Station. He huddled into his coat trying to stay warm.

 He had only gone a few steps when he thought he heard his name.

 “John!”

 It was a wonderful feeling, hope.

 The crazed, madman from last night was running toward him. His coat flapped behind and as he came closer, John could see that his cheeks were pink from the chill.

 John’s heart did a funny little lurch, as if that string was being coiled in, drawing him closer to the other man.

 “I was…delayed. I had to ensure my flat was habitable again. Tedious. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.” His voice was every bit as deep and sensual as last night and it continued to slide up and down his spine.

 “Um…no, not too long. But the pub just closed and I was heading home.”

 The unearthly eyes swept over him. John felt it, as if Sherlock had plucked at that string. He pulsed with it.

 “Oh! You thought I wasn’t coming. You were waiting for me and thought I wouldn’t show.” Sherlock looked decidedly uncomfortable.

 A shrug. “It’s all right.” He smiled. “You’re here now.”

 Sherlock continued to stare at John and startlingly he grinned.  “Yes, yes I am” He sobered almost as quickly.  “You should know John, I’m, I’m not an easy person to be with.  I don’t do relationships, I won’t talk for days, I play the violin at odd hours, I’m difficult.”

 John tilted his head and looked thoughtful. “And I’ve invaded Afghanistan. You’re not so scary.” He shrugged again “Of course I wasn’t alone.” He giggled at little. It was all so intense, the giggle was like a safety valve. The taller man stepped into his space, permeated it with his overpowering presence. John could feel the heat rolling off of him, flames licking, both scorching and melting. The wind blew harder through and around them, lifted the ends of Sherlock’s coat and seemed to be nudging them together, but it failed to cool the ardour that burned between them. If anything it fanned the flames higher, tendrils reaching out and wrapping around them both.

 “John, my flat is back to normal, well, when I say normal…it’s been cleaned. My brother owed me a favour. Would you come home with me?”

 He couldn’t stop himself. He stood up on his toes and grabbed Sherlock’s coat. The other man leaned down and they kissed, quick and rough. They drew back a bit and Sherlock lifted a hand to trace the edges of John’s face.

 “Let’s go,” John said, his voice low. Sherlock hailed a cab.

 “You’re sure you want to go in a cab? I mean…”

 “Really John, how many murderous cabbies do you think there are in London.”

 They sat close, legs touching. John reached over and picked up Sherlock’s hand. He felt an imperative need to constantly touch his skin and he ran his hand over the back of the long elegant fingers and thought about what they could do to him. He was almost shaking with suppressed desire. Sherlock looked down at their two hands together and back up at John. He leaned over and kissed John again, this time slower, he took his lower lip between his own and scraped over it, lightly, with his teeth. The cabbie cleared his throat. John grinned into Sherlock’s mouth but didn’t pull back. What he did do was he take his free hand and wrap it around Sherlock’s neck and let his tongue sweep the lush upper lip. A low groan started in the pit of John’s stomach and climbed up, reverberating through them.

 The cab screeched to a halt and the cabbie banged on the partition. Sherlock broke away long enough to pass the driver some money and haul John out of the cab.

 He was pushed roughly against the door of Sherlock’s building, the detective’s hands were everywhere, in his hair, grabbing his arse but John couldn’t get close enough and pressed into him harder, his leg wedged between Sherlock’s and he lifted his knee a little to brush against the prominent bulge. Sherlock gasped and fumbled with the latch. The door bounced open and they blundered into the entry, stopping long enough to hang their coats. John was pretty sure his slid to the floor but he really didn’t care. He was much too interested in Sherlock’s hands as they explored and at the same time managed to tow him up the stairs and into the flat. There wasn’t much chance to look around, but he had the impression of old Victorian style wallpaper and a scattered, organized chaos. Sherlock had wrapped his hands on either side of his head again and was kissing him. It felt like drowning. There wasn’t enough air. There never would be.

 Crashing into the next room, they fell onto the bed. Sherlock paused his kisses long enough to pull John’s jumper over his head at the same time John was attempting to undo the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt.  Hands were batted away until the jumper was tossed aside and then, between kisses, they managed to divest each other of their shirts.

 Sherlock paused and swept his gaze over John’s naked chest. The doctor shivered at the concentration, the feeling of being consumed. Sherlock’s eyes flickered over the knot of scar tissue on his left shoulder. “This is why you came to London, why you were discharged.” It wasn’t a question. John nodded, unable to speak, embarrassed. Sherlock looked at him, ruthlessly. “Don’t be.” And bent and kissed his shoulder with reverence and tenderness, contradicting the tone of voice. “If you hadn’t have been shot, you might not have come to London.”

 John’s breath drew in as Sherlock nibbled and sucked and touched it with his tongue. He thought he might explode. He would never in a lifetime have thought someone tonguing his scar could be so erotic.

 “What are you doing?” he managed at last.

 “Memorizing it. This is sacred, this scar. It brought you to me.” John laid his head back and watched as Sherlock revered his body. He ran his hands down the long back and was just able to skim the top of Sherlock’s jeans. His fingertips dipped under and brushed his pants. Sherlock broke off and kissed his way up John’s neck, moving his body at the same time so John could run his hands underneath the band. He ran his nails lightly over the plump arse, deceptively so as the rest of the man was wire thin.

 As Sherlock moved, John could feel the length of the other man’s erection against his leg and he became even harder. They shifted again until their crotches were aligned and they began to move together. John thought he might be hyperventilating and he stopped to catch his breath, eyes closed. When he opened them again it was to see he was being scrutinized once more.

 “What?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed with worry.

 The impossibly beautiful face held such awe, it felt as if he’d break right there, fragment into bright, shiny shards of glass.

 “Why?” was the reply. “I don’t do this, this sort of thing.” The hand waved in the air before it returned to gently encase John’s jaw and caress it. “I don’t do this. What is it about you? You are completely addictive. I’ve only known you just over a day, but I will never let you go.” A puzzled expression crossed the angular face.  “I will need a lifetime to take you apart and find out what you are, to burrow under your skin and dissect you.”

 John stilled, a feeling of utter rapture tore through his heart and it did break, it broke and was reconfigured into what simply had to be Sherlock.

 “Oh God. I think that’s a bit not good, but fuck if I care.” And he grabbed the back of Sherlock’s head and yanked him down toward him once more, trying to tell him with his mouth and not with words how utterly undone he was becoming.

 Sherlock thrust his hand between them and began undoing John’s belt.  He teased his fingers over John’s erection, and they both whimpered. He could come just from this, from kisses and touching.

 His jeans were quickly opened and those teasing fingers moved over him through his pants.

 John stopped him. “Fuck! I’m so stupid!”

 Sherlock looked at him as if he had two heads. “Granted you aren’t as intelligent as I am but you're much smarter than most of the other idiots out there.”

 John ran a hand over his face. “No! I didn’t bring anything… you know!”

 Sherlock grinned, alarmingly a little shark like and wild, but John really didn’t care because of the funny thing it was doing to his breathing. He watched as a pale arm reached past to the bedside table and withdrew a small packet and a tube, which were pressed into his hand.

 John blinked and then flushed. “I, umm I really have never done this before. I mean I know the theory, but no, not this far with another man, just, you know…”

 “Fellatio?”

 “Uh, yeah.” He blushed even more. One day Sherlock would tell him he wanted to take John and fuck him every time he coloured.

 Sherlock’s head titled and he studied John for almost a full minute. John was getting a little nervous at the intensity and the silence but said nothing.

 Sherlock lowered his head and kissed him some more until he simply melted into the bed, and became loose and pliant.

 His jeans were tugged off and discarded, as were his pants. He didn’t really see how but Sherlock was apparently naked as well.

 One hand was braced against the headboard, the long body over John, his mouth doing unspeakable things to his own and the other hand…

 “Fuck! Christ!”

 The other hand had grasped John and was slowly pumping.

 “Shit! Slow down. I’m going to come.”

 The hand was withdrawn and began fondling his balls. John let out a long shuddering breath. Somehow, at some point Sherlock had slicked lube over his hand and one finger was rubbing over his arsehole. As the first finger went in, he hissed.

 A bit lip and a query. “All right?”

 “Oh god, yes! Don’t stop!”

 The finger slid in and out and found its way, crooking, until it brushed John’s prostrate. He gasped again the first was joined by a second and Sherlock’s other hand continued to stroke John’s cock. He fisted his hands, one in the thick, dark curls the other in the sheets. He arched his back trying to connect the two of them along the whole length of their bodies, just to touch, to feel the smooth, silver skin against his own. There was a shift and Sherlock had three fingers inside and had wrapped his long fingers around both their cocks. Pumping slowly, maddeningly.

 “Oh Christ!” he looked down to see and came with a convulsion. It seemed to go on for a long time and he was beginning to wonder if he was even breathing. He cracked open one eye and Sherlock was there, watching once again. He though, giddily, _that_ he could get use to.

 “That was indescribable, to watch you… to see you...you were so open and vulnerable.” the deep, rich voice whispered. John gradually became coherent enough to see that Sherlock hadn’t come yet. He tiredly grasped his _lover’s?_ cock in his and he murmured.

 “Come on Sherlock. Come for me.”

 The taller man wasn’t far behind and when it was over he collapsed, heaving, upon John’s sweat drenched chest.  John smiled and stroked the long back before he managed to wriggle his trapped hand out from between them.  He fished his pants from the bottom of the bed with his toes, wiped off the mess and snuggled down, rolling Sherlock into him so his head was still resting on his chest and John’s arms were encircled around the detective’s body. Their breathing was returning to normal but John knew his heart would never recover.

 Sherlock continued to pepper the parts he could reach with kisses, intoning odd things that sounded vaguely like the periodic table and quite possibly in French. Listening to these quiet mutterings, he knew he had never been happier or more content. One hand continued to finger and tangle through the curls on the back of the amazingly clever head as he thought, drifting into sleep. This was it for him. He’d begun in Afghanistan, it had moulded and shaped him, made him stronger, but it had come to an end with a Talban bullet. He’d come back to London to start over, he’d managed to work and live but until he met Sherlock he hadn’t really been alive. What he had thought was his end in Afghanistan turned out to just be a new beginning.

 Just as he was about to tip over into what felt could be a deep dreamless sleep, he heard Sherlock breath into his ear. “How would you feel about a flat share?”

 John chuckled sleepily, “Sure, because I feel like living with you could be a nice quiet life.”

 Sherlock smiled against his skin. “As long as you don’t mind body parts in the fridge.”

 John frowned, and decided that maybe tomorrow would be better suited to discover if Sherlock was serious or not.

 

 


End file.
